Hey there, friend. Pull up a chair, or just settle in wherever you are. I’ve got a story to share with you tonight, one that’s been rolling around in my mind lately. It’s about a man from a small village, someone I think we can all see a bit of ourselves in. I know I do. Let’s walk through his days together, feel the weight of his struggles, and maybe find a little light along the way. I’m right here with you, just talking this through like we’re sitting on a quiet porch at dusk.
There was this man, you see, living in a little village tucked between rolling fields and dusty paths. He wasn’t a bad guy, not at all—just… lazy. Not the kind of lazy where you don’t care, but the kind where you mean to do things, you really do, but somehow the hours slip away. Mornings would find him tangled in his blankets, the sun already climbing high while he lingered in bed. When he finally got up, he’d wander—sitting here for a while, chatting there with a neighbor, playing with the kids in the street, or fiddling with some small, unimportant task. Before he knew it, the morning was gone.
By the time afternoon crept in, he’d tell himself, “Alright, I’ll bathe, eat, and then I’ll get to work.” But after food, his body would feel heavy, and he’d think, “Just a quick rest.” That rest turned into a deep sleep, an hour or two vanishing like mist. When he woke, evening was already whispering at the edges of the day. He’d promise himself, “I’ll start now, just a little later,” but then he’d find himself chatting with a friend or wandering off on a walk with no purpose. Night would fall, and after dinner, as he lay down to sleep, this heavy guilt would settle on his chest. Anotherwater: I’ve felt that too, you know. Those moments when you lie awake at night, replaying the day, feeling like you’ve wasted it. It’s a quiet ache, isn’t it? A sadness that sticks with you. This man felt it every night, promising himself, “Tomorrow, I’ll wake early. Tomorrow, I’ll work hard. No more delays.” But come morning, that familiar heaviness would pull him back into bed, and the cycle would start all over again.
It wasn’t just him who suffered. His family felt it too. They depended on his farming—the planting, the weeding, the watering—but he kept putting it off. The crops withered, the yield was small, and money was tight. His wife’s frustration would spill over, sharp words turning into arguments. I can imagine him sitting there, head in his hands, feeling the weight of it all, knowing he needed to change but not knowing how to break free from this trap of his own making.
One day, though, as he sat outside his house, lost in thought, his gaze drifted to a temple in the distance. A saint lived there, an old man with a life so different from his own. I picture the saint rising before dawn, while the village still slept, bathing in the cold river, then returning to pray and meditate. By the time others stirred, he’d already swept the temple grounds, calm and steady. Later, he’d walk the village for alms, cook his simple meal, study ancient texts, and in the evening, he’d speak with devotees, his voice gentle but firm. Night after night, he’d finish his duties and rest on time, never faltering. This man, watching from afar, couldn’t help but wonder: How does he do it? How does he stay so disciplined, year after year?
Something stirred in him, a flicker of hope, and he made his way to the temple. Standing before the saint, he bowed low, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I’ve come with a burden, a problem I can’t shake. I’m lazy. I waste my days, putting off what matters. Mornings slip away in idle tasks, and by night, I’m filled with regret. I want to change, but I’m trapped. Please, show me a way out.”
The saint listened, his eyes kind but piercing, as if he could see right into the man’s heart. Then he spoke, his words simple yet heavy. “Laziness is a false comfort, one that only brings sorrow. You have the strength to work, but you delay, and that delay chains you. The root of it lies in your mornings. Waste those early hours, and the rest of your day follows. But if you can claim your morning—truly own it—the rest will fall into place. It’s not easy, though. It takes discipline, small habits built day by day.”
I’ll be honest with you—I’ve had my own mornings where I’ve hit snooze one too many times, scrolling through my phone instead of starting the day right. And I feel it, that drag on the rest of my hours. So when I think of what the saint said next, it hits close. He shared seven habits, not as rules, but as lifelines. I’ll walk you through them, just as he did, because maybe there’s something here for both of us.
First, he spoke of meditation. “Sit still each morning,” he said, “even for ten minutes. Watch your breath—feel it rise and fall, notice where it comes from, how it moves. Let your mind settle on that alone.” He promised it would sharpen focus, bring a quiet calm that carries through the day. I’ve tried it myself, just sitting on my couch before the world wakes up, and there’s something to it—a stillness that steadies you.
Then, gratitude. “Begin with thanks,” he urged. “In the morning’s hush, think of what’s good in your life—people, moments, even the smallest things. Offer that thanks to the universe, or to whatever you hold sacred.” He said it lifts burdens, opens doors. I remember one morning, just listing three things I was grateful for—my warm coffee, a kind word from a friend, the sunrise. It shifted something in me, made the day feel lighter.
He spoke of exercise next—moving the body to wake it up. “Even thirty minutes,” he said, “will stir your energy, strengthen you, ease your mind.” Then, reading—good books to feed the soul, to learn, to escape. Setting goals, too, while the mind is clear, mapping out the day’s work. Drinking water first thing, to cleanse and refresh. And a simple, nourishing breakfast, not heavy, just enough to fuel you without weighing you down.
As the man listened, I imagine his face—hope mingling with doubt. Could he really do this? But he left the temple with a quiet resolve, determined to try, to weave these habits into his mornings. And I wonder about him now, picturing him rising early, sitting in silence, whispering thanks. Did he break free? Did those small steps build a new rhythm?
You know, as I think on this, I’m reminded of how often we’re like him, caught in our own cycles—maybe not laziness, but distraction, fear, or just the pull of old habits. I’ve got my phone right here, tempting me to scroll first thing in the morning, and I know it throws off my whole day. Maybe it’s time I set it aside, like the saint might’ve warned against anything10: I’m not saying it’s easy, but what if we tried, just for a week, to start our mornings with intention? A few minutes of quiet, a word of thanks, a stretch of the body. Small steps, right?
I’m sitting here with you, thinking about this man’s story, and I can’t help but feel we’re all on this path together, trying to break our own chains, whatever they are. So, tell me—well, tell yourself, really—what’s one thing you could do tomorrow morning to claim that early hour? I’m asking myself the same. Maybe we’ll find, like he hoped to, that winning the morning is the first step to winning the day. Let’s keep talking, keep trying. I’m right here with you, rooting for us both.